


I've Been Eating (For You)

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Romantic Friendship, Sif and Loki have a lot of feelings about each other, Sif is the HBIC, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Chitauri attacks, Thor brings Loki to Asgard. His punishment is cruel and varied. Sif is determined to rescue him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Been Eating (For You)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for torture. As someone who's scared of blood, I got dizzy while writing this so beware! Sif will be coming in next chapter and then the ickyness will slow down.

_"But just don't ask about my appetite  
I didn't lose it tonight  
It's been gone half my life"_

_—_ "I've Been Eating (For You)", Bright Eyes

 

He’s flung into his childhood room with far more force than he thinks is necessary. For a while, Loki can’t stand to move. He lies on the cool stone floor and focuses on breathing. When he breathes, the constant pain subsides. It’s focused somewhere behind his nose (he idly thinks that green _thing_ might have broken it) but with concentration, he can pinpoint a dull throb in his kneecaps too and in his shoulders and the soles of his feet and everywhere and.

And he lies on the floor and thinks how glorious the granite feels against his skin. It seems like hours later when he draws himself up, trying not to wince. He’s sure he’s under constant surveillance. Maybe if he seems stronger they’ll— execute him more slowly? Even in his head it sounds stupid but it’s a plan and without a plan he’s a bleeding, miserable mess who would much rather sleep on the ground than make his way to the bed.

Once standing, Loki takes his room in. The bed is made, all the sheets smoothly neatly. His nightstand is empty. All the old, melted candle stubs and empty inkwells are gone. He blinks. He can’t remember the last time his room was so clean. Since childhood, he’d preferred to keep things in a state of disarray.

Against the end of his bed, his books and manuscripts are stacked neatly in a new shelf. It looks like they were arranged by subject. Loki feels sick. The idea of his books, some containing dark magic or graphic descriptions of violence, being carefully arranged by some stupid maid makes him want to throw up. Maybe it’s a silly reason to get upset but Loki feels embarrassed and angry and finds himself kicking the shelf over. It falls with a dull thud and Loki’s foot erupts in pain.

He falls over into his bed. It’s just as comfortable as he remembers, covered in animal skins and satin pillows and soft woven blankets. He doesn’t bother undressing before he falls asleep.

In his dreams, he sees the Chitauri. He sees the deformed faces of an army he doesn’t want, that he hates to even look at. He sees one revolting hand reach for him and he wakes up in a cold sweat.

The curtains are open and he can see the sun rise. His body still aches but considerably less so. There are spots of blood on the sheets. He wonders if he’ll be allowed to bandage himself. Maybe he’ll die looking like shit with bruises and gaping wounds. The thought bothers him and when he drifts back to sleep, he dreams of himself lying on a funeral pyre, dripping in blood.

Loki awakes to a pair of big blue eyes. He jumps, which hurts his back, then relaxes as he sees a head of yellow hair and an obnoxious pout. It’s Thor. Loki considers telling his brother to leave because he’s still so tired but stops when he sees that Thor is holding a bowl of oatmeal and a mug of water.

Loki didn’t eat much on Midgard. Once Selvig ordered a pizza and after trying a slice, he had almost vomited.

“I figured you’d be hungry.” Thor says in an uncharacteristically somber tone. _So I’ve been sentenced to death_ , Loki thinks as he shoves a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. He’s surprised at himself. His enjoyment of the meal far outweighs any fear of Asgardian law. In fact, Loki thinks, the idea of sleeping for forever sounds rather enticing.

But first, he eats. Thor just watches with his eyebrows lowered and his mouth firmly shut. When the bowl is empty and Loki realizes he’s still exhausted, he throws the bowl against the ground. It shatters and the sound makes his head throb. He takes a large gulp of water and does the same to the mug. Feeling satisfied, he leans back into his pillows and prepares for a long nap. Thor just watches.

The next time Loki wakes it is night. The moon is out and it would be pitch-black if not for the light of a puny candle. He turns to see his mother ( _No, not his mother. His… stepmother_.) sitting on the edge of the bed, holding one of the long silver candlesticks that usually only came out of storage for a wedding. She sees him move and smiles and Loki wants to kill her. He imagines his hands around his throat. He imagines her begging for mercy and then going still.

“You’ve aged.” Frigga, his not mother says. Her voice is just as high and sweet as it is in Loki’s dreams, when he’s caught off guard by a memory he’d tried to forget.

“I’m sorry if that’s upsetting for you.” Loki says. He knows he doesn’t look well. He’s seen his reflection in the odd piece of glass or pool of water. He’s seen the yellow tint of his skin or the dark bags under his eyes.

But Frigga, not mother, just smiles like she just knows everything he’s ever tried to hide. That look that used to scare that shit out of Loki when he was younger and hiding some lie or prank.

“I’ve missed your sense of humor.” She says and the urge to throttle her comes back. _I’ve killed thousands. I’ve killed because I was bored. I decimated a city. I embarrassed my family. I tried to kill my family. Stop smiling. Stop smiling. Stop smiling._

“I’ll try not to get pushed off of the brifrost from now on so you don’t go too long without it.” Loki finds himself saying. He doesn’t know why his voice sounds so venomous because all he feels is a crushing tiredness that threatens to overpower him. “

You’re back. That’s what important. You’ll stay here.” Frigga says and she and her candle leave. Loki hears the door shut gently and knows his fate. He will be killed and buried in Asgard.

Days pass and he is not killed. Loki spends nearly all his time sleeping and by the end of the week he can move without wanting to scream. His bruises are dark and ugly but they no longer sting. His cuts have scabbed over and his left foot was starting to grow toenails again. Loki is encouraged. He may die looking like himself.

Food is brought three times a day and it’s real, _good_ food. He knows it’s spiked with something that contains his magic but he can’t be bothered to care. Loki eats it all.

Sometimes Thor visits and watches him. Sometimes his not mother visits and tries to talk. Loki ignores them both.

At the end of the first week, Loki is restless. He is ready to die. He looks like a person again. He is no longer continually exhausted. Instead he yearns for a different kind of sleep.

He decides to try and leave his room that night. There must be guards at the other end of the door and they must know when the execution is scheduled for. He falls asleep mentally rummaging through his closet, deciding what outfit to die in.

He wakes up a few hours later and knows it is time.

There’s a hand against his mouth and he’s being held down by something. It doesn’t feel good to be forcibly contained, especially when the pressure hits a bruise. There’s a wetness on his face and he knows they’ve broken a scab. Still, Loki doesn’t struggle. He knows it won’t hurt for much longer.

But it _does_ hurt and Loki hates himself for shifting his weight around, trying to find a spot where his muscles don’t ache. There is none. Three figures are surrounding him. He doesn’t recognize them. He wishes the hand was off his mouth so he could ask them to be quick. And then it comes.

The man farthest away lunges forward and punches Loki in the stomach. It hurts more than Loki would like to admit and he knows there were bits of metal in the man’s brown glove. He holds in a scream as black spots dart in front of his eyes. Then the hand is removed.

Loki is grateful and begins to speak when a blinding pain hits him. Biting his tongue, he looks to see the second man holding a long, thick stick. He tries to get up but finds that he can’t. He knows it’s magic and hates it. He can’t even _move_ and he’s going to die.

The stick hits again and this time, Loki bites his tongue so hard he can taste blood. He opens his mouth and tries to ask for something (he doesn’t know what) but no sound comes out. More magic.

The stick hits again. Loki tries to scream. No noise.

The stick hits again and he can see red at the corners of his vision. He can see blood gush out of the thin gashes on his legs and wonders if they’ll clean him before the funeral. His calves are almost entirely red. The stick is sharp, like a knife, and Loki tries to remember what enchantment they must have used on it and can’t because his head is reeling.

The stick hits, this time at his thighs and another ribbon of blood erupts. Loki isn’t squeamish but he suddenly feels sick. There’s so much red and the sheets are dripping and he wonders if he’ll die of blood loss.

He remembers the Russian girl.

“ _…It’s dripping red…_ ”

The stick hits again. He knows there are tears streaming down his face. He hates that. He hates that the two men not bludgeoning him to death are just watching with cold, apathetic faces. He hates them. He’d rather they jeer and taunt.

The stick hits and Loki is gagging. For a moment he thinks with horror that he’s asphyxiate on his own vomit, unable to sit up and then a trickle of blood falls out of his mouth. He looks down and there are gashes on his chest.

The stick hits. Something bright is echoing in the back of his mind. Loki hopes its death but knows it’s more likely just unconsciousness. He’ll take whatever he can get and lets it overtake him.

Burning.

His body is burning and suddenly, desperate, he breaks through the magic and a yelping, unearthly scream comes out. He struggles and finds he can sit up and move and there is red everywhere. He is burning and he screams again. It only makes his head hurt so he stops and lies still.

His mouth tastes like…

_Salt water. Clever._

Loki’s about to congratulate his executioners but they’re gone and he’s alone.

Then, suddenly, he sees Not Mother. She is standing over him and she’s crying and Loki knows he’s on the funeral pyre. He is dead. But he can see his bedroom door out of the corner of his eye.

He blacks out.

Loki knows he has to assess his injuries. Tears streaming down his face, he peels back the sheets, which have stuck in his open wounds and hears the scabs rip open.

He knows that he can’t lie still forever and that they will come back. He knows this is his punishment. They’ll come until he dies.

This is oddly comforting. He examines where the skin is slowly knitting together and where he can see the white of his bones. He knows he could recover from this, given time and medicine. He wonders why they held back.

Loki is holding his left leg, looking at a particularly gruesome cut when he abruptly faints.


End file.
